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Authors: Paul Johnston

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BOOK: Crying Blue Murder (MIRA)
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Mavros sat back to enjoy the remaining mouthfuls of his portion.

   

 

The door to the main room opened not long after he had finished eating. He looked up and watched as a middle-aged man of medium height with a thin moustache walked in with an assured air. He glanced at the Fat Man, twitched his head dismissively then turned towards the yard. He took in Mavros with a piercing look, running his eyes all the way up from the dark blue espadrilles to the mane of hair, concentrating finally on the firm, stubbled jaw, the aquiline nose and the dark blue eyes.

‘You the private dick?’ he said in English.

‘I’m the dick,’ Mavros confirmed with a loose smile. ‘And you’re Deniz Ozal.’ He pointed to a chair with a wicker base.

The man was wearing a pair of tailored olive-green trousers with a matching short-sleeved shirt that he hadn’t tucked in. The bulge of his stomach was still obvious. He rested his heavy briefcase on the floor, looked over his shoulder to establish that no one else was in the vicinity, and sat down opposite Mavros.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, wincing. ‘How do you people sit on these chairs all day?’ He peered at what Mavros was sitting on. ‘Oh, I get it. The torture gear’s for the tourists.’

Mavros glanced at his canvas chair and shrugged. ‘You can have this one if you want.’

‘Nah, forget it,’ Ozal said. ‘Do me good to remember the shit my ancestors went through.’ He laughed, displaying straight white teeth. ‘After all, Turks and Greeks are basically the same, aren’t they?’

Mavros raised his eyebrows. ‘I wouldn’t recommend that as an ice-breaker at social gatherings around here.’

Deniz Ozal nodded. ‘Tell me about it. I’m as bad as it gets as far as most Greeks are concerned—Turkish blood plus American nationality. That’s probably why I get screwed so much every time I come to the so-called cradle of democracy.’

Mavros nodded. Ozal had a point. The historical enmity between Turks and Greeks had survived into the twenty-first century despite the moves of a few well-meaning politicians and the occasional outburst of fraternal aid after earthquakes; while American military involvement in the civil war that followed the Second World War and the CIA’s machinations during the dictatorship of 1967-1974 had not been forgotten or forgiven by many Greeks.

‘What are you then?’ Ozal demanded, his eyes locked on Mavros.

‘I told you, I’m the dick.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ the Turkish-American said irritably. ‘You know what I mean. Are you Greek or what? Your English is perfect.’

Mavros raised his shoulders. ‘My father was Greek, my mother is Scottish. But I’ve lived here all my life, apart from four years of university in Edinburgh.’

‘Edinburgh, Scotland, huh? Cool city. I went to an antiques auction there about five years back.’ Deniz Ozal leaned forward and cocked an ear as his seat creaked. ‘So how good a dick are you, Alex? It’s okay if I call you that? What have you got that I should buy?’ He turned towards the Fat Man, who was deep in his book of card games. ‘Hey, can I get a cup of coffee here? What’d’ya call it?
Varyglyko
?’

Mavros nodded. Strong and extra sweet. ‘What have I got? Didn’t Kriaras tell you?’ He’d known the police commander for ten years. When something came up that the official police didn’t fancy, it would often be shunted in his direction.

The Turkish-American opened his arms. ‘Sure he did, but you and him could be best buddies running a scam for all I know. You give me a sales pitch and I’ll tell you if I like it, okay?’ He leaned forward again. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. You don’t look like any private dick I’ve ever seen. Haven’t you got a set of decent clothes? Haven’t you got an office? And what kind of hairstyle do you call that?’

Mavros blinked and put his hand to his forehead. If he was going to offload this guy, now was the best time, before he found out what the job entailed. He’d made the mistake in the past of sticking with a client he couldn’t get on with for the sake of what seemed on first impressions to be an interesting case.

‘Well?’ Ozal said impatiently. ‘What have you got, Alex?’

Mavros watched as the Fat Man lumbered across the gravel with the coffee and a glass of water.

‘Thanks, pal,’ Ozal said. ‘
Efcharisto
.’ His accent and intonation were good. ‘Hey, anything to eat?’ He looked at Mavros’s plate. ‘What did you have?’

The Fat Man was already on his way back to the kitchen. Mavros knew for sure that, even if there was any
galaktoboureko
left, Ozal wouldn’t get it. The café owner was even more anti-American than the Party’s Central Committee.

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Mavros said. ‘You don’t want to eat in here.’ He moved his eyes around the yard and up to the wasp traps dangling from the pergola.

Ozal followed his line of gaze. ‘Jesus, I see what you mean. Look at those poor suckers.’

Maybe it was because he’d left his potential client hungry, maybe it was because at least this one wasn’t an Athenian snob, but Mavros decided to go along with him. ‘All right, Mr Ozal—’

‘You can call me Deniz, Alex,’ the Turkish-American said with a wink of complicity.

‘All right, Deniz. What have I got? I studied law at university in Scotland, specialising in criminology. After my military service back here I worked in the Public Order Ministry, implementing legislation, liaising with the police, that kind of thing. Then I got involved in a special study of the private investigation sector in this country. This was about ten years back when it was really taking off. People didn’t have much faith in the police—they still don’t—and there were plenty of cowboy operators…you know what I mean?’

‘Very funny,’ Ozal said with a grunt.

Mavros smiled. ‘Who were no better than the criminals who were preying on their clients. That was when I realised I could do the job as well as any of the competition. Plus, it got me out of the office, as well as the barber’s shop. It also allowed me to wear whatever I liked and it made me responsible only to myself.’ He smiled again. ‘And to my clients, of course.’ That was Mavros’s usual sales pitch. What it didn’t include was any reference to the intense frustration he’d felt when he worked as a civil servant—frustration caused by political interference, bureaucratic incompetence and the gradual realisation that his conception of justice, which was based on the individual’s rights and needs rather than those of the faceless state, wasn’t shared by anyone else in the ministry’s echoing marble halls. But he didn’t think many of the people who wanted to employ him would be too interested in that.

Deniz Ozal sipped the coffee, his look of suspicion turning to one of beatific joy. ‘Shit, this is great coffee.’ He turned round. ‘Hey, big guy. Excellent coffee.
Poly kalos
kafes
.’ The Fat Man looked up blankly then went back to his book.

‘You speak Greek?’ Mavros asked.

Ozal shook his head. ‘Nah, just a few words I’ve picked up on visits. Anyway, keep going, Alex. You haven’t told me about the cases you’ve cracked.’

Mavros shook his head slowly. ‘And I’m not going to. You’ve heard of client confidentiality?’

‘Good answer,’ Ozal said, grinning. ‘But you’ve got experience tracing missing persons?’

‘Kriaras must have told you that,’ Mavros replied impassively, concealing the curiosity that had suddenly gripped him. Finding people who’d disappeared was his speciality— more than that, it was his
raison
d’être
.

‘Yeah, yeah. Give me some idea of what you can do, Alex. I don’t wanna go into this blind.’

Mavros studied him then nodded. ‘All right. For a start, I’m completely independent. I’ve got contacts where I need them and I know how the various systems work, but I only use them when I have to. Meaning I can avoid the bureaucratic snarl-ups that this country’s famous for.’ He paused as Ozal nodded approvingly. ‘Second, I know the press and the other media, and I know how they work. I make sure they don’t know anything about me and what I’m doing unless I want them to.’ Ozal gave another nod. ‘Third—and maybe most important for you— I have a hundred per cent success rate.’ Mavros tried to ignore the customary stab of guilt. He really had succeeded in every case he’d taken on, apart from the one that meant most to him. But that wasn’t business, that was family.

The Turkish-American looked sceptical. ‘Is that right?’

Mavros nodded. ‘It is. You know how I’ve managed that?’

Ozal laughed, an unpleasant grating sound. “Cos you’re the fuckin’ Greek version of the Continental Op?’

‘There’s that,’ Mavros replied, his expression intent. Obviously the man was a fan of Dashiell Hammett’s stories. ‘And there’s the fact that I only take on cases I have a feeling for.’

Ozal took out a packet of unfiltered cigarettes from his shirt pocket and used a heavy gold lighter on one. ‘What does that mean, have a feeling for? Have a feeling that you’ll be able to handle them without screwing up?’ He held out the packet.

Mavros shook his head and moved his hand to clear the smoke. ‘Not exactly. I have to feel interested in the case or I won’t take it.’ He smiled and opened his eyes wide, then flicked his worry beads across the back of his hand. ‘Now it’s your turn to make a pitch.’

The Turkish-American blew out another cloud of acrid smoke, this time in the direction of the nearest humming wasp trap. ‘All right, smart guy. See what you think.’

Deniz Ozal began to speak in a low voice and gradually the sound of traffic and the cries of the souvenir hawkers faded from Mavros’s ears. Soon he was hooked.

   

 

Island of Trigono, 1500 hours, September 27th

   

 

The sun was glinting so brightly from the flat surface of the water in the harbour that Nafsika had difficulty seeing the surrounding boats, let alone the mountainous bulk of the island across the straits. 

‘Let’s go!’ At the rudder Yiangos was smiling, but there was tension in his voice. ‘It’s time.’ He gunned the engine and waited as she loosed the forward mooring rope. When she sat down next to the pile of dark red net, he steered away from the quay and headed for the far end of the breakwater’s line of boulders.

The
trata
named
Sotiria
was a nine-metre-long, diesel-powered fishing boat with high bow and stern, and a squat wheelhouse amidships. Although the official season for operating with seine nets didn’t begin for another couple of days, several of Trigono’s fishermen had been out testing their engines and winches in advance of the deadline. Yiangos was hoping that people would assume his father had sent word for him to get ready and that he was doing the same thing.

‘Look, Yiango,’ Nafsika called, her arm extended to her right. ‘It’s the beast.’ She laughed, the wind flicking her raven hair across her chestnut eyes.

The helmsman glanced to the side and took in the blue hull of the large
kaïki
owned by Aris Theocharis. The bald, fleshy figure coiling a rope on the foredeck was following the
Sotiria
’s progress. The eyes under the green sun visor that he habitually wore were fixed on Nafsika and his tongue was playing along his thick lips.

‘Go to hell, rich man’s son,’ Yiangos said under his breath, spitting over the side and increasing the engine revs. He knew that Aris had been watching Nafsika for years, openly staring at her as she changed from pretty teenager to stunning woman.

Yiangos looked ahead, making as if he were judging when to steer hard to port beyond the light but in reality watching his girlfriend. Nafsika was sitting with her legs open at the top and crossed at the ankles, the material of her purple bikini bottom taut across her crotch. Christ, what a woman she’d become. Her firm, full breasts were hard to ignore, as the beast had just proved. He twitched his head. That fat bastard. He should keep his eyes to himself.

‘Turn, Yiango, turn!’ Nafsika was staring at him, a wide smile extending across her face. ‘What’s the matter? Seen something you like?’ She stretched her arms and pushed her bosom forward, then laughed. ‘Not yet, my friend. Not yet.’

Yiangos completed the manoeuvre and lifted his weight from the tiller, his cheeks burning. Although they’d been a couple since they were fifteen, Nafsika still had the power to turn him to jelly. He often felt like a little boy beside her; he couldn’t understand why she stayed with him or what she saw in him. But that would all change when his father gave him the money that was due to him. This trip would show how useful he could be to his family and to hers.

Suddenly Nafsika was beside him, her arm round his back. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ she said, pointing to the island’s eastern flank. The afternoon sun was still on the slopes of the southern massif, giving the dusty ground a deep brown glow. ‘Aren’t we lucky to have such a place for our home?’ She laughed, her eyes bright. ‘Think of all the tourists who come from far away to see Trigono.’

Yiangos grunted. He didn’t like the foreigners, the loudmouths who crowded the bars and kept the local people awake till morning, but they had their uses—after all, they poured money into the island. What he was doing now was mostly for the foreigners. He felt a twinge of uneasiness, less because he feared he might mess up than because he didn’t know how Nafsika would react.

‘Come on, misery,’ she said, nudging him in the ribs. ‘I said not yet.’ She smiled seductively. ‘But soon, all right?’

Yiangos felt her hand brush across his groin. He wasn’t sure if they would have time before the delivery, but afterwards she would definitely see what a man he was.

   

 

‘So let me get this straight.’ Mavros moved the plastic ashtray off the table. ‘You lost touch with your sister Rosa in the early summer after she came on holiday to Greece and Turkey.’ He looked at the photographs Ozal had produced from his briefcase again. Rosa Ozal was a dark-haired beauty with a bright smile and a figure that looked good in a bikini. ‘Until now the last contact your family had was a postcard from Istanbul in July and you’ve spent the last six weeks trying unsuccessfully to get the Turkish authorities interested in locating her.’

BOOK: Crying Blue Murder (MIRA)
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